Holly Blues by Susan Wittig Albert

disaster has made them vulnerable and fearful. Even after they’ve restored their lives to some measure of normalcy, most will never be the same. They’ve lost too much, and they’re afraid of losing it all over again. Every time I hear from one of these friends or see images of those hurricane-ravaged cities, I share their pain, at some deep level. It’s a potent reminder of how fragile our lives are and how easy it is to lose a home. That was what made me reach out to her. It was an impulse, and it was genuine. I meant it.
    Sally took my hand, held it for a moment, then let it go. “Thank you,” she said, making an obvious effort not to cry. “But that’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid. I had a job selling advertising, but the newspaper where I was working—the Star —cut back on the payroll. I mean, I know I’m not the only person this happens to. Lots of people lose their jobs. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.” She straightened, tried to smile, and I saw a flash of the old, confident Sally. “It even happens to people who are good at what they do. Like me.”
    She had lost her job? This was even worse. And of course she was right: it happens all the time. Not to me (at least not yet, knock on wood), but to people I know. When it happens, it hurts—and must hurt a lot worse when you’ve just lost your home, as she had. I shivered, thinking how awful that would be and wondering how I would cope. Probably not very well.
    Sally leaned forward, giving me a straight look. “Like I said, China, I don’t have a place to live. I don’t have a job. And I don’t have much money. I’m here because I want to spend some time with my son. I’ve missed a lot, and I’d like to catch up. But I also need . . . well, I need some downtime. Time to get my act together. I know I’m not the best mom in the world, and I know you don’t like me very much.” Her lips trembled and she paused, pressing them together. “I’ve been a pain in the you-know-what for both you and Mike. I admit it, and I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the boot. But it’s Christmas. Can you find it in your heart to—” Her eyes filled with tears. “To be a friend and take me in for the holiday? Please?”
    Back when I worked in the tough, competitive world of cutthroat litigation, I developed a remarkably tough skin and an exceedingly hard heart. I learned how to see through liars as if they were transparent. I could stand up to anybody, look him straight in the eye, and deliver a powerful, pithy, and final No . Hell, no, when the occasion warranted, which it often did. Even today, when someone tries to lie to me, my antennae go up and I get a feeling across the back of my neck, unmistakable but hard to explain. I haven’t lost my nay-saying habit, either. I say no when people ask me to take on more projects than I can manage or when I’m asked to give money to a cause I can’t support or when somebody asks for something I don’t have.
    But in this case, I didn’t hesitate. Whether it was Sally’s homeless-ness, the loss of her job, or her honest admission that she had been a troublemaker—whatever it was, my heart was touched, and I heard myself saying something I never thought I’d say.
    “We’d be glad to do what we can.” I didn’t ask myself who we was. I knew I couldn’t speak for McQuaid, who was going to be very, very angry when he found out what I was about to offer. He hadn’t even wanted me to invite her to dinner, for pete’s sake.
    “You will?” she breathed. “Really?”
    “Sure,” I said generously. “The guest room at our house is empty. You can come and stay with us. Brian will love it.” Would he? I wasn’t even sure he would want to see his mother again, after she skipped his last birthday.
    “Oh, gosh,” she said, clasping her hands. “That would be wonderful!”
    “And if you need a car,” I went on recklessly, “we can probably work something out. We might even be able to